


One Life Shapes The Next

by Tehri



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death of Mungo Baggins, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Expect more fics about Bilbo's family, F/M, I have so many headcanons, Take them away, Took-Baggins rivalry, because I have too many headcanons about them, help me, hobbit politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9444089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: In the year 1300, by Shire Reckoning, Mungo Baggins passed away and left behind him a family that was unusually well off and with an impeccable reputation. Bungo, the eldest child in the family, does not believe that anyone can live up to the expectations his predecessor set.





	

Winter was always a difficult time for the hobbits of the Shire. Stocking up food for the winter was challenge enough for them, as much as they ate, but they found cheer in their lives all the same. After all, they still had their health and their families, and few homes were in disrepair – all in all, their lives were good.

The year 1300 by Shire Reckoning was different. Whereas it was not colder than it usually was, there had been several blizzards throughout Yule, which made them have to work a little harder than usual to clear the roads. Bungo Baggins, on the other hand, had little thought of this when he on the tenth day of Afteryule struggled through the snow at the bottom of the Hill towards the lovely smial where he had grown up.

Greenbriars, the seat of the Baggins-family, was a little out of the way; it laid directly on the western side of the Hill, hidden away at the end of a smaller road. It was difficult to find the way there if you did not already know it, and Bungo had walked that road enough times to be able to do so in his sleep. Yet he walked with a sense of urgency now, alone for the first time in ten years. Belladonna and little Bilbo had agreed to stay at Bag End – it made no sense for the whole family to be out in the cold today.

He was surprised as he came round the bend in the road to the garden gate and found his father sitting on the bench by the door, seeming perfectly content in the snow as he smoked his pipe. Bungo paused for a moment and watched him; he seemed smaller, somehow, than he ever had been. Smaller and more frail. His hair had gone from the iron grey Bungo could remember to a snowy white, his brown skin had wrinkled – but his dark eyes, when they lifted to meet his gaze, were sharp as ever.

“What on earth are you standing there for, lad?” he asked. “Do not make an old hobbit waddle over to open the gate for you, you can do that yourself, thank you very much.” Bungo couldn’t help but smile as he opened the gate and crossed the last distance between them and sat down beside his father. Mungo smiled back at him and raised an eyebrow. “I suppose your mother asked you to come.”

“She did,” Bungo admitted. “She worries for you, da.”

“She hovers and frets, and yet I’ve nothing to show for it,” Mungo sighed. “Not even needed a healer for months, and yet she scarcely dares to touch me for fear that I’ll break.” He frowned, his sunny smile gone in a flash. “Do I look so old? Or so weak?”

“You _are_ ninety-three,” Bungo reminded him. “Whether you like it or not, you are getting on in years.”

“Gerontius is a hundred and ten,” Mungo retorted glumly. “And he is as spry as any of his children. That hardly seems fair, does it?”

“He also has no clue of why he hasn’t tottered on yet,” Bungo stated with a quiet chuckle. “But da, you must understand why mum worries so. You had a scare in Forelithe, and the healer did say she thought you might not make it.”

“I am tired, that is all,” the old hobbit grumbled. “Goodness knows I love Laura, but at this rate her hovering is more likely to cause apoplexy than anything else.” He sighed and leant back, staring out over the lands that stretched on beyond the Hill. “She almost would not let me go outside today, you know. Said my breathing had slowed during the night, so much that she almost thought I’d gone already.”

Bungo frowned; such a statement might have alarmed any other hobbit, but as old as his father was getting, it did not come as a surprise. Bungo had years prior taken over many of his father’s duties as head of the family, as Mungo was sensible enough to plan ahead of his own death and ensure that his son would be ready when the time came. But knowing that it would eventually happen and staring it in the face were two very different things; Mungo was as stubborn as his father Balbo, who had insisted that he felt fine up until the very moment his heart ceased to beat. Bungo had tried to argue with him before that he had to rest and leave what duties he still held on to, but it was a testament to the famous stubborn streak of the family that Mungo had settled immovably and told his son to stop talking nonsense and go away.

Poor dear Laura was practically the only one able to convince him, if only because he feared what her worrying would do to her heart. Whenever Mungo had become what others would consider difficult, Laura had put her foot down and told him to be sensible; she never needed to say more than that, as he knew all too well that it meant she was at the end of her wits with his mulish behaviour.

Bungo peered thoughtfully at his father and thought back on the years he had spent in Greenbriars. Though kind-hearted, old Mungo Baggins indeed had stubborn streak a mile wide; not many hobbits were able to deny him anything, nor outwit him. It had earned him a reputation as a gentlehobbit with a silver tongue and a will of iron. Few could talk him out of anything once he had his mind set on something. Old Gerontius Took had tried a few times, and more than once those discussions had escalated into shouting matches and several words spoken that only rekindled bad blood between them.

“Why aren’t Bella and Bilbo with you?” Mungo asked suddenly, breaking his son out of his reveries. “It would have been nice to see them.”

“You visited us during Yule,” Bungo reminded with a smile. “Didn’t you see them plenty then?”

“I only have one grandchild who lives anywhere nearby. Belba and Rudigar and their lad are in Budgeford, if you remember,” the old hobbit answered crossly. “And as you said, I am getting on in years.” He turned his head and gave his son a sharp look. “Speaking of Bilbo, there’s something I’ve wanted to say for a while. He’s your son, of course, and I’ve no say in how you raise him, but don’t you neglect any part of Bilbo’s life. He may look and behave much like yourself, but he is his mother’s son at heart. You’ll do well to remember that.”

Bungo raised an eyebrow.

“All my life you told me what a Baggins is supposed to be like,” he said slowly. “Why this sudden concern about Bilbo?”

“Because he is more than a Baggins,” Mungo shot back; he sounded almost annoyed with his son’s confusion. “He is a Took, and the grandson of Gerontius at that. Do you truly believe that you could quench that in him? Or that you should?”

The younger hobbit smiled; he had discussed this with Belladonna many times before. Bilbo was an outgoing child, and even at only ten years of age he could well charm the moon right out of the sky. No matter the occasion, he was more likely to be found wandering the fields around Hobbiton than at home. He was a Took at heart, no matter what anyone said.

“The poor lad will have it difficult when he grows up, I can feel that in my heart,” Mungo continued, frowning as he stared out over the hill again. “It’ll be dangerous for him if he grows too comfortable in being master of the Hill once you are gone; goodness knows a Took shouldn’t settle in that fashion, they’ll only get restless and withdrawn and suspicious. It may suit Gerontius now that he’s too old to travel, but goodness knows he wishes he could leave the Shire every now and then.”

“I take it you’ve kept up the habit of writing to each other,” Bungo stated airily and grinned unrepentantly at the derisive look this earnt him. “Oh, let me have my fun, da. It’s a surprise, is all, when you two could scarcely stand each other for so long.”

“It’s politics, and nothing personal,” Mungo grumbled. “I apparently have a better head for that than he does, surprisingly enough, and he does appreciate the occasional advice. He needs to ensure that his son will be ready to take over when he is gone.”

“Thain Isengrim Took the third,” Bungo sighed. “Could we not see if old Gerontius will live forever instead?”

“He is your brother-in-law, you fool, don’t speak ill of him.” There was a twinkle still in Mungo’s eye as he spoke; he had heard many stories of the temper of the Thain’s eldest son, mostly from Belladonna and Bungo. He had ever found them amusing, knowing that Bungo’s own temper could well match that of Isengrim if he only bothered to get wound up. “Speaking of kin, have you heard from Longo lately?”

“Still in the South Farthing,” Bungo said dismissively. “Still not on speaking terms with me, I’m afraid.”

A sad look passed momentarily over the old hobbit’s face and finally settled there. He shook his head and sighed heavily, blowing out a cloud of smoke from his pipe as he did so.

“Pity,” he murmured. “I’d hoped you boys would at least _try_ to get along again. Though I suppose I might not get to see it.”

Bungo felt a stab of guilt at that; he and his younger brother had silently agreed to not speak to each other after Belladonna had joined the family, as it was more likely to end in fistfights than anything else. Longo had, on the rather strong suggestion of their father, moved to the South Farthing shortly after the wedding and had stayed there since, even meeting a lass of his own. Though he sent letters still to his parents, they were woefully short and lacking in detail.

Bungo had to admit that he missed his brother. He missed the jokes only they understood, and he missed debating with him. But he worried, as he always did – he didn’t know how they could set so many cold words aside.

“I could try,” he said slowly. “I can try to write to him, da, but I cannot say that he will answer me.”

“So long as you try,” Mungo answered. “Kin shouldn’t fight, lad. Goodness knows you and Longo were at each other’s throats like rabid foxes sometimes, but other than that you were close. Should such a little thing as who you’ve married come between you?”

 _It already did_ , Bungo thought glumly to himself. Out loud he said: “No, I suppose not.”

“I do not mean to pressure you,” the old hobbit assured him. “But you are going to become head of the family soon, and that also involves keeping the peace with your kin.” He gave him a small smile. “Stars know I love you, lad, but you’re just as stubborn as I can be. And you hold grudges just as well.”

“It’s not a grudge,” Bungo protested. “It’s only… Well, we can’t seem to agree as easily anymore, and you know he has a sharp tongue.”

“Not a grudge, eh?” Mungo smirked and tilted his head. “Of course it’s not a grudge. And your mother and I only married yesterday.”

“And you know Longo’s sharp tongue comes from yours,” Bungo grumbled. “Come, perhaps we should go inside. It’s cold.”

“My son is a weakling,” Mungo teased and grinned brightly at him. “Well, in you pop, then. Go and say hello to your mother.” He paused briefly, and for a moment there was a look in his eyes that Bungo did not recognise. “Why don’t you fetch me a cup of tea while you’re at it? I’d like to stay here a while, but I suppose I could use something to warm my hands a little.”

Bungo only chuckled and gave his father a pat on the shoulder as he rose from the bench, though there was a nagging feeling in his gut when he went inside the smial. The look on his father’s face had been unfamiliar, to say the least, and it worried him.

 

* * *

 

 

How long had he been in the smial? It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes – he’d only had a word with his mother and fetched the tea. And yet when he had returned outside, the world seemed to slow down to a snail’s pace.

Mungo had been laying face-down on the ground, completely still. It looked as though he had gotten up and tried to get to the door, judging by the footprints in the snow, but he never reached it. Remembering the scare in Forelithe, Bungo had wasted no time in turning the old hobbit over on his back to check if he was breathing.

Counting the passage of time was soothing and nerve-wrecking at the same time. It had taken him perhaps two minutes, no more, to haul his father inside and to his bed. Laura, ever quick to act, ordered him to run to fetch mistress Salvia. They needed a healer, and fast.

Ten minutes, and he had reached Salvia’s door. By some strange stroke of luck, she was at home and not out on an errand. She did not seem surprised to see him, and was out the door and on her way along the road as soon as he’d managed to gasp out that she had to come to Greenbriars.

Twenty minutes, and they were back at the smial. Salvia shooed them both away from the bedroom and closed the door behind her as she got to work. Bungo simply stood there, one arm around his weeping mother, and tried to force his mind to catch up with what had just happened.

“I have to write to Longo,” he said numbly. “He has to know, someone has to tell him.”

“Don’t you fret about that,” Laura stated firmly, her voice thick with tears. “I will do it. You go on home and tell Bella, ask her to send word to Tuckborough.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bungo answered, though he couldn’t force any fervour into his voice. “I’m not leaving you alone with this.”

They fell silent. There was no use in arguing about it – Laura knew all too well that if her son wanted to stay, he was going to stay. It was as much for her sake as it was for his own.

Thirty minutes? Forty? He’d lost count. He only stood there, staring at the door, hoping vaguely that it was just another scare. He couldn’t imagine his father being gone – didn’t _want_ to imagine it. Even during Yule, Belladonna had joked that Mungo was so stubborn that he’d live as long as Gerontius. For a while, he’d actually believed it.

The door to the room finally opened and Salvia came out into the passage.

“Mistress Baggins,” she said quietly. “Would you come with me for a moment?”

Laura did not object, but followed her down the passage to the kitchen. Bungo didn’t follow, didn’t need to hear anything but his mother’s sobs getting louder to know that that was it.

 

* * *

 

 

The following days were nothing but a blur. Salvia had offered to tell Bungo’s family, to ensure that he didn’t have to leave his mother alone, an offer that he gratefully accepted. Between fits of crying, Laura began to make arrangements for her husband’s final rest; Bungo helped where he could, though he did not know as well as she what his father would have wanted.

One of few things that remained clear in his mind was how he’d gone outside into the garden late one evening to watch the stars. Standing there in the cold, he never once looked up at the sky. Instead he looked around the garden. The lilac bushes where he and his siblings had hid during games of hide-and-seek, or when they had roused their parents’ ire. The rose bushes that Mungo never wanted in that particular spot but which Laura had doted on. The snow-covered flowerbeds that every spring and summer became colourful and vibrant, filled with sunflowers and other blooms that Laura cared for and with weeds that Mungo resolutely pulled out. The apple-tree that he’d grown accustomed to finding his father napping beneath on lazy summer-days. The copper beech beyond the garden fence where Bungo had climbed as a child, always with Mungo standing below to keep a watchful eye on him and telling him to be careful. The bench by the side of the smial where his father had showed him how to whittle little figures out of wood.

Going back inside in an attempt to stop thinking, he kept seeing little things here and there that brought out memories he’d not thought of in years. His father’s armchair, where Bungo as a small child used to sit on his lap while listening to a story. His cane, which he had grumbled endlessly about having to use, but which he’d also lovingly decorated with small carved flowers. His favourite books on a shelf in the parlour, which Bungo had read when he could and eagerly discussed with him. His favourite pipe, the one that had belonged to old Balbo Baggins, on the mantelpiece in the drawing room – the pipe that he’d promised he’d let Bungo have one day, because it should be passed on in the family. His study, where all of his children had learned to read and write and count, which was filled with little knick-knacks and old mathoms that Laura refused to put anywhere else in their home but which he loved and had kept since his own childhood.

It had been days since his father’s death, but it was that evening that the tears finally came. Laura found her son there in the study, seated on one of the old chairs in the corner with his face buried in his hands and his body shaking as he sobbed.

 

* * *

 

 

Bungo remained in Greenbriars for some time after the funeral; he insisted on helping his mother settle, and to ensure that all affairs were in order. Laura refused to let him take up the mantle as head of the family and instead told him that she would do so for a time.

“Until Bilbo is a little older,” she told him gently when they discussed it. “Or until I can’t do it anymore. But you need your time with your family, dear – that’s something your father always did regret, that his duties often got in the way of spending time with you all.” She looked at him with misty eyes as she said this and continued: “You mustn’t ever doubt whether or not he loved you. He would have taken the moon out of the sky for you or moved mountains if they displeased you. I hope you know that.”

“I do know,” Bungo answered quietly, smiling at her words. “But he loved you just as much.”

“I found some of his old letters to me this morning,” Laura confessed with a weak laugh and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I’d forgotten I had them. Do you know he always refused to compare me to any form of flower? So many lasses sighed and swooned when their darlings compared them to lilies or roses, but Mungo flat out refused. He brought me a bouquet of sunflowers instead and said that it was the closest he could get, because I was not a flower – I was the sun itself.” She smiled when Bungo laughed and shook her head. “The headdress I wore when we married was decorated with sunflowers, simply because he insisted on it. And to think he disliked being called romantic!”

“And he had the nerve to call me silly for everything I wrote in my letters to Bella,” Bungo snickered. “Did you ever write back?”

“Of course I did.” She sighed deeply. “I told him to stop talking nonsense and focus on convincing his father that I would be a good match, young though I was. He responded with poetry, of all things.”

“I wonder if he kept some of your letters…”

“Of course he did. I used to see him reading them in his study when he hadn’t shut the door properly and thought I was elsewhere. But don’t you worry about those, dear.”

 

* * *

 

 

So passed the days; slowly but surely, everything began to settle. The absence of Mungo remained painful, but they tried all the same to go about their days and ensure that they at least did not get stuck in their grief.

On the fifth of Solmath, a bitter wind blew through the Shire; it was cold enough to keep practically all of them indoors, hoping that it wouldn’t bring more snow in its wake. But it was on this day that Bungo happened to look out through the parlour window, one of few windows with a view of the road leading up to the gate, and saw Gerontius trudging through the snow towards the smial. He rushed to open the door, and Gerontius pulled down his scarf from his mouth to smile at him.

“Was I that slow?” he asked with a laugh. “But thank you, lad, saves me the trouble of standing outside in the cold waiting for the door to open.”

“Bella said you would be coming to Hobbiton sooner or later,” Bungo answered as he stepped aside to let the old hobbit inside. “They were here just yesterday to, well, check on us, I suppose.”

“She wrote to me as soon as she heard,” Gerontius stated calmly as he took off his hat and scarf. “Though I’m afraid the roads were impassable then; you know where it passes between those two hills on the way up to Tuckborough? The wind had blown it all straight in there. Took a while to properly clear it. And then of course we had to see if it was at all possible to get to Hobbiton.” He flashed a grin as he shrugged off his coat and hung it along with hat and scarf on one of the pegs in the hall. “I’m amazed that the post got through at all. Poor lad, that hobbit who had to get through the snow. It was halfway up his thighs when he went through that little pass. Now, then…”

He paused for a moment and his expression fell somewhat. He gave Bungo a long sharp look and tilted his head.

“How is your mother?” he asked quietly. “Is she well?”

“Well enough, considering the circumstances,” Bungo answered. “She keeps herself busy, but at least she doesn’t refuse to talk about da.” He smiled softly and shook his head. “I don’t think you need to worry about her. She’s been waiting for this to happen since Forelithe, and now the worrying is over and done with. She’s sad and she misses him, but she’ll be alright.”

“Is that what she has said?” Gerontius asked. “Or is that what you’ve perceived?”

“A little of both. I’ve been here for days, Gerontius, I ought to have noticed if anything was amiss.”

“She hasn’t seemed high-strung or tense? No wool-gathering? No withdrawing from you?”

“Everyone handles grief differently, you should know that,” came a voice from further down the hall. Laura stood by the doorway to the study, hands on her hips and an eyebrow raised as she eyed them. “I am perfectly alright, Gerontius, so you may stop your fretting.”

“Fretting, who’s fretting?” Gerontius asked, as he always did when someone accused him of being worried; but there was a tone of relief in his voice when he spoke, and he quickly strode up to Laura to pull her into a tight embrace. “My dear lass, I never fret.”

“And ponies bark, of course,” Laura snorted, but she smiled all the same. “Come now, I’ve got tea brewing.” She gave her son a look. “Bungo, dear, could you take a look in the study? I was going through one of the boxes of papers in there, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s a jumble of correspondence – you know how he was with saving everything, just in case.”

“I’ll take a look,” Bungo promised. “If there is anything at all important, I’ll let you know.”

They separated, Laura and Gerontius going into the kitchen and Bungo going into the study. He despaired a little bit at his father’s pack-rat habits when he saw the box of papers on the floor, but ground his teeth and began his task. Laura had certainly not lied when she stated that she couldn’t make sense of it. Most of what Bungo found seemed to be personal correspondence rather than anything related to Mungo’s duties as head of the family, or indeed any sort of political venture. Though one would certainly think that Mungo would have been organised enough to keep personal matters separated from everything else, Bungo found himself sighing and groaning when he went through the box and found it necessary to create two different piles for what he found; one for matters related to the head of the family, and one for personal matters.

Eventually he left the study to get himself a cup of tea. It would be needed, he thought, if he were to tackle the remaining papers with any shred of sanity. His father had been many things, but good at organising his papers was obviously not one of them. Bungo grumbled to himself until he reached the doorway to the kitchen. There he stopped short, blinking in confusion. Laura was crying again, clutching her handkerchief in both hands, and Gerontius simply sat on the other side of the table and smiled.

“Mum?” Bungo said carefully. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine, dear,” she answered with a half-choked laugh. “It’s only memories. I always do forget that Gerontius was not entirely unaware of the goings-on in the Baggins family.”

“Oh, it was quite a scandal back in the day, I assure you,” Gerontius chuckled. “Who would have thought that a Baggins would put the dessert before the main course? Not me, that’s for certain. Poor old Balbo, he was so angry.”

“We’d been ever so careful,” Laura sighed and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “And still I ended up with child, and Mungo got to marry me just as he wanted – though not in the manner he would have liked. I’m afraid Balbo never thought too kindly of me for derailing all other plans with my _audacity_ to carry his son’s child.”

“One way or another, da always got his way,” Bungo stated with a smile. “Forgive me for interrupting – I only wanted a cup of tea.”

“Leave the letters for later, lad,” Gerontius urged him. “Why don’t you help an old hobbit through the snow instead? I’d like to at least pay my respects to the old fellow, though I’m sure he’s likely to revive just for the sake of telling me to get out.”

“I’ll look through the papers for a while,” Laura suggested. “Have you figured something out about them yet?”

“Only that da was worse than Belladonna is,” Bungo sighed. “I’ve tried to separate them into two piles, if that’ll help. One for business and one for personal matters.”

“It’ll help a little bit, I should think. Now, off you go, dear.” Laura rose from her seat and smiled warmly at him. “Take the back door – you needn’t spend more time than necessary out there.”

“Wise words,” Gerontius laughed. “Thank you for the tea, Laura, and for the chat. It does an old heart good to see you in at least relatively good spirits. I’ll admit that I was worried when I heard.”

“You are always worried about something or other, if I am to believe Belladonna,” Laura shot back. “And poor Adamanta has her work cut out for her, trying to keep you from bouncing off the walls in frustration over problems you have no power over.”

“The walls will remain intact so long as I have Addie,” Gerontius stated as he rose to his feet and bowed with a flourish. “My thanks for caring to know me so well.”

Laura only rolled her eyes and sighed in a great show of exasperation and left the kitchen. Gerontius chuckled and gave Bungo’s shoulder a pat.

“Show the way, lad,” he said. “Your mother must’ve had quite enough of me.”

Bungo led him through the smial to the back door and out into the garden. The wind did not seem to be keen on giving up; flurries of snow flew through the air, and Bungo felt immensely grateful for the fact that he’d not have to go anywhere for the rest of the day. He did not enjoy the cold, not even a little bit. He led Gerontius along the garden path and finally up to the apple-tree. There was a single stone beneath it, a large white-painted one that would have been almost invisible in the snowdrifts if not for the branches of the tree keeping most of the snowflakes off it.

“Mum thought it was fitting to let him rest here,” Bungo stated quietly. “He always did love this tree.”

For a while, the old Took did not answer. He only stood there and gazed at the stone with an inscrutable look on his face, as though he was trying to pierce the rock with his gaze. When he moved at last, it was only to kneel and reach out to touch the cold surface of the rock.

“You died too soon, you old fool,” he sighed. “The main dissenting voice who has argued with me ever since I was named Thain, before you even had any actual power of your own. Who am I supposed to argue with now? Who is supposed to challenge every little decision I make? Mayor Burrows is too meek for that, and Marmadoc is no fun to argue with, for all that he’s a good Master of Buckland. Though I suppose you’re proud of yourself, wherever you are. You practically made yourself indispensable, and you certainly put your family on the map, so to speak, despite it being one of the smallest families in the Shire.” He smiled softly and caressed the stone. “I suppose it’s safe now to admit that I was impressed – you would never have let me live that down if I’d told you so before. I never expected you to get anywhere. I mocked you at every turn, but goodness knows you were able to answer me well enough. Maybe we were never friends, not precisely – but I’ll miss you all the same.”

Bungo stood by, smiling softly while he listened. Gerontius Took had managed to charm a lot of hobbits in his younger days – but not Mungo Baggins. Their rivalry had in a surprisingly short time become something nearly legendary. If Mungo had an idea that would require the approval of at least one of the worthies to carry out, Gerontius was quick as lightning to inform the mayor on his stance in the matter. If Gerontius was asked to deal with a political matter and appeared to have a sound solution, Mungo would quick as a snake tear it all to shreds by pointing out every single little flaw. To hear either of them speak even remotely kindly of the other was odd, to say the least – but at the very least it seemed they had temporarily buried the hatchet over the past few years.

“Forgive me,” Gerontius said quietly as he got to his feet once more. “You shouldn’t have to listen to an old hobbit prattle on like that.”

“I don’t mind,” Bungo answered. “But come now, it’s too cold to stay here much longer. You’ll catch your death of cold, and Bella would never forgive me for that.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Gerontius turned his head for a moment and raised his hand to wipe at his eyes. He gave Bungo a somewhat disdainful look out of the corner of his eye when he noticed that the younger hobbit raised an eyebrow. “The wind is in my eye,” he claimed, and Bungo only smiled and nodded and did not mention that the wind was beating at their backs.

As they came back into the warmth of the smial, Gerontius asked about the will. There had been much curiosity regarding this, even among Mungo’s closest family; the old hobbit had never allowed anyone else than a legal official he knew very well to see it, and he’d never breathed a word of what it contained.

“Well, it’s more or less as expected, for all that he never spoke of it,” Bungo explained. “Mum has full claim over everything up until the event of her death. Only a few things here and there were immediately given to myself and my siblings.”

“Such as the deed of ownership for the land around the Hill, I’d wager,” Gerontius mused, a sly look in his eyes when he glanced at him. “Which I suppose passed to you?”

“It did.” Bungo had to smile. “The responsibility for the tenants of the smials and farms falls to me. Did you know that it included the fields on the northern side of the hill as well? Da has even ensured that new smials will be built there, and new fields tilled.”

“The northern side?” Gerontius blinked and tilted his head. “Didn’t master Boffin own the land there? The fellow at Overhill?”

“All the land north of the Hill, the border to his lands drawn about two miles from here,” Bungo confirmed. “Da managed to negotiate for a drawback of the border – it now lies an extra four miles off.”

“So that means six miles northwards,” Gerontius hummed. “That’s not bad. I would’ve thought master Boffin would tell your father to mind his own business.”

“Apparently not.” Laura peeked out from the study and smiled at them. “You forget Mungo’s best feature – the ability to convince practically anyone.”

“A hefty sum of money probably helped,” Bungo snorted. “I’ve not forgotten how miserly he got all of a sudden. It makes sense now, of course, but he must’ve nearly emptied all possible coffins!”

“Oh, don’t be silly, you know your father better than that,” Laura laughed. “Master Boffin may have proposed a good deal more than what the land was actually worth – if only because he realised your father had some sort of scheme in his head. But my dear Mungo was clever enough to convince him to knock the price down about half-way. But enough of that now. Gerontius, you were mentioned in the will, actually.”

“That’s right.” Bungo grinned at the surprised look on the Old Took’s face. “There were a few surprises, such as his idea to gift part of his book-collection to Bella.”

“The rest of those books are yours, aren’t they?” Gerontius asked vaguely. “Well, now you certainly have my attention. What would that old fool want to give me?” He frowned and shook his head. “No, don’t answer that. I can think of several things, and half of them are likely to maul me.”

“Half a moment, and I’ll see if I can find it,” Laura said quickly and bustled out of the study and down the passage. “He did state which one it was, luckily. Even marked it.”

“Which one?” Gerontius asked. “What on earth does that mean?”

“That there is a collection,” Bungo laughed. “As with everything else.”

“If it’s a book, take it yourself,” the old hobbit groaned. “I have no space as it is.”

“It’s not a book,” Bungo answered. “I promise it’s nothing like that.”

Gerontius only gave him a doubtful look, but stayed there and waited with him. Soon enough Laura came back to them, rounding the little turn in the passage and smiling brightly. She held a long red linen-wrapped parcel in her hands, with a neatly folded note attached to the string.

“I suppose he thought that everyone would find it and ask questions if he kept it in his study,” she said as she came to a halt. “But this is marked very clearly with your name, and he described the parcel in his will.” She pressed it into the old hobbit’s hands, laughing when he only stared at it. “Well, go on! Open it!”

“You are all disturbingly cheerful about this,” the Old Took answered. “Only a little while ago, you were sobbing because I remembered how you came to be married.”

“Well, this is something more cheerful,” she answered. “Don’t you think it says he thought well of you, that he decided to gift you something?”

“Then he should have gifted it earlier,” Gerontius mumbled, but he removed the note from the string and unfolded it. His eyebrows rose as he read: “ _For Gerontius Took the Old – son of Fortinbras Took I and grand-nephew to Bandobras Bullroarer Took – a hobbit of questionable character, in possession of no sense, and with a history of impeccable moments of complete idiocy. I shall not say you have enriched my life in any fashion, but rather made it more chaotic and difficult to live. This I gift to you, in the hopes that it will cause you as violent a headache as you have given me every day we have been forced to interact. MB._ ” He stared at the note for a moment, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll never understand how he could be formal and yet insulting at the same time.”

He slipped the note into his pocket before turning his attention to the parcel itself. He seemed almost reluctant to open it; but soon enough the string was pulled away and the wrapping removed to reveal a wooden box with brass hinges. Brass had also been inlaid into the lid, in the shape of the monograms of the Baggins- and the Took-family. And inside the box, which had been well packed with straw and cloth, was a bottle containing a clear liquid.

“Water?” Gerontius said blankly. “Why would he give me a bottle of water?”

“Oh, that’s not water,” Laura laughed. “Mungo and his father had few vices, but this was one of them. Of course Mungo didn’t partake very often, but he kept a bottle or two around just if the mood struck.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Mungo Baggins drank moonshine?” The old hobbit began to grin, seeming pleased as could be with that information. “Well, that certainly clears up what he wrote about giving me a violent headache.”

 

* * *

 

 

The snow flitted slowly to the ground outside the windows of Bag End; winter had come once more, and Bungo found himself absurdly pleased at how normal it was. The Fell Winter had truly turned everything in the peaceful little land upside down, and it had taken a long while to recover after. It didn’t matter to the old hobbit that he’d taken ill and now had to walk with a cane – or that he could not take any long walks anymore. Everything had an end, and he could feel that the clock was ticking.

He sat by the window in the parlour with a book in his lap, as he had for most of the day. Belladonna had been flitting in and out of the room, sometimes cleaning and sometimes only checking on him. She was fretting, he could tell. But he did his best to reassure her each time she expressed her worry – there was no need to be frightened, not yet. No, he had some things he wanted done first…

“You asked for me, da?” Bilbo said carefully when he entered the parlour. “Mum said you wanted a word.”

Bungo glanced up from his book and smiled. Bilbo was nervous – it was easy to see on his stance and from the small frown on his face. The lad always wore his heart on his sleeve.

“Yes, I do,” Bungo answered calmly as he closed the book and put it aside on the table. “Come, sit down.” He waited patiently, but eventually raised an eyebrow when the young hobbit in the doorway didn’t move. “Is something wrong, Bilbo?”

“That’s grandpa Mungo’s chair,” Bilbo blurted out. “You’re not supposed to sit there.”

The old hobbit had to smile at that; many of Mungo’s old things had made their way into Bag End through the years, and the chair in question was the same one that had once stood in his study. It was hardly ever used, simply out of respect for the old fellow – it had been his, after all, and it would never entirely belong to anyone else. It had been over twenty years since his death, and Bilbo still referred to it as his grandpa’s chair and insisted that it wasn’t to be used. Quite endearing, really.

“Yes, well, I’m certain my poor old da would forgive such an offense,” Bungo joked, grinning at the confused look his words earnt him. “Come and sit down now, lad, and stop gaping like a fish. I really should have talked to you about this long ago, but better late than never.”

Though he looked doubtful, Bilbo came into the room and claimed the chair next to his father. He fidgeted in his seat, casting worried glances at Bungo as the older hobbit only watched him.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly. “Are you angry with me, da?”

“Goodness no, what gave you that impression?” The old hobbit raised an eyebrow and smiled kindly at his son. “No, I am only thinking. I must’ve been about your age when my da reminded me that I’d be head of the family after him. I was terrified, you see, because he never really liked to speak of putting any of his children in that position. Never mentioned ever passing the title to another. And suddenly he called me into his study, sat me down and told me very bluntly that ‘you are going to become head of the family when I am gone, Bungo, and it’s time that you learn what duties that will entail’.”

Bilbo stared at him. He looked frightened and apprehensive, yet somehow curious. It was the Took-blood, Bungo reasoned – it made hobbits react oddly to things that would normally frighten them. Or perhaps it was something entirely Bilbo – he had a natural curiosity that had gotten him into and out of trouble many times. Perhaps too many, for his age.

“You’ve taught me plenty of that already,” the young hobbit said slowly. “I’ve helped you since the Fell Winter, da.”

“Of course, of course.” Bungo gave him a patient smile. “But we’ve not spoken properly of it yet. Do you understand what will be placed on your shoulders? It is not only writing letters and keeping kin in check. You’ll have to manage the estate, and you’ll have a good deal of political responsibility as well.”

“We’re not one of the larger families, da,” Bilbo sighed. “And we’re certainly not worthies. What political responsibility would we have?”

“That attitude is precisely why I wanted to talk to you about this,” Bungo answered sharply, his smile fading and a serious look replacing it. “Your grandpa Mungo fought tooth and nail to ensure that we would have something to our name. That legacy was begun long before your great-grandfather Balbo, and your grandpa was the one to properly build up political alliances. You’re too young to remember it, but no matter who was elected mayor or became the mayor’s deputy, Mungo became their unofficial advisor. He made a position for himself, and by way of good reputation and impeccable character, he never left it.”

“Please do not tell me you’ve kept that up,” Bilbo blurted, eyes growing to saucers and his face growing pale. “Please do not tell me I’ll have to do that. I’ll go insane if I must solve other people’s problems for them all the time.”

“Solving problems is part of it all, Bilbo, you already know that.” The old hobbit rose from his seat and stepped over to the hearth. On a little wooden stand on the mantelpiece rested an intricately carved pipe – Balbo’s pipe, well used over the years – and this he picked up along with a little leather-pouch beside it. “No, that is luckily something I’ve not had to do. And something I hope you won’t attempt either. I certainly do not have the head for it – your mother is better at remembering rumours and gossip than I am, and a good deal better at using it to one’s advantage. You…” He paused while he opened the pouch and took out some tobacco to thumb into the pipe, giving his son a long look. “Suffice to say that I’d be just as worried if your cousin Adalgrim were Thain of the Shire.”

“Then what else is there?”

“Think, lad. You are becoming the head of the Baggins-family. You will represent our good name. But you are also a Took – and the grandson of one of the most influential Thains we’ve ever had. The only child of his eldest daughter, remember that. You are in line for that office, though you are far down the list of candidates by now. And not only that – your aunt Mirabella married Gorbadoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland. You have connections there as well.”

“And with grandpa Mungo’s reputation and connections to the mayoral office, I essentially have connections to all of the worthies,” Bilbo filled in with a heavy sigh. “Yes, alright. I see what you mean. I know what expectations I have to live up to.”

“You’ll need to move carefully, lad.” Bungo nodded gravely as he lit his pipe. “I am not speaking of expectations resting on your shoulders. I am asking you to remember that it is more than the Baggins family name that requires your consideration. You’ll have the eyes of the Took-family’s supporters on you as well, not to mention the Brandybucks. You’ll need a very thick skin to handle their criticism. Our name is one of the gentry-families now, and your every move will be carefully scrutinised.” He gave his son a tight and grim smile. “It is certainly not easy, and I hope you realise that. To keep the family business the way it is requires that there are still people willing to do business with us, and to keep our political connections requires that our reputation is not so tarnished that we are shunned. A scandal here and there does not matter, so long as you do not truly do something that will harm anyone.” As he returned to his seat, his mien softened and he winked at Bilbo. “Look at it this way – better you as head than Longo or Otho. They’d ruin the family’s reputation in less than a day, and ensure that the worthies would want nothing to do with us ever again.”

“Will being head of the family mean that I get to speak ill of kin?” Bilbo asked, smirking as the tips of his father’s ears turned red. “Since you always tell me not to, that is.”

“It means that you get to do so when around someone you know will not repeat your words,” Bungo answered. He had to admit that it made him feel horribly guilty to speak ill of his little brother – but it was a guilt that came with a small grim sense of satisfaction. “Or around people who agree with you.”

“I thought grandpa didn’t like it when you spoke ill of kin,” Bilbo stated airily.

“Yes, well, grandpa is not here to pinch my ears off for it either,” Bungo muttered around the stem of his pipe. “And so long as he doesn’t spontaneously rise from the dead to tell me off for stating the truth, I daresay my ears are quite safe.”

They fell silent. Bungo closed his eyes for a moment and leant back in his chair, remembering his father’s funeral. Bilbo had been so young then – months away from turning ten years old. Belladonna had worried that he wouldn’t understand what had happened or where his grandpa was, but it hadn’t taken him long to figure it out. For a very long time, the child would cry every time his grandpa was mentioned. Once he settled, he began to visit the grave every year on the day Mungo had died.

“I think grandpa would’ve been proud,” Bilbo said suddenly, and Bungo’s eyes snapped open again. The old hobbit turned his head to give his son a confused look. “Of you, I mean. And of what you’ve achieved.”

“What on earth are you going on about?” Bungo asked. “I’ve not achieved anything else than keeping the peace.”

“You married the lass of your dreams,” Bilbo answered with a smile. “You fought tooth and nail for what you wanted, just like he did. And when people whispered behind your back or spoke ill of you or mum, you just held your head high and chose not to listen. I think grandpa would’ve been proud.”

Bungo stared at him for a moment longer before quickly sticking his hand in his pocket to pull out his handkerchief. He turned away, stubbornly ignoring his son’s laughter while he pressed the cloth against his eyes and hoped that it would cover his surely beet-red cheeks. He’d never been good with accepting praise, especially not in relation to his father.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Bilbo laughed. “I’m sorry, da! I didn’t think you would cry!”

“I am certainly not crying,” Bungo grumbled, hoping that his voice didn’t sound thick. “Caught something in my eye, is all.”

But he smiled, hidden behind the handkerchief. Maybe Mungo would have been proud.

**Author's Note:**

> \--Dates--  
> 10th Afteryule - 1st January  
> 5th Solmath - 26th January
> 
> Last scene between Bungo and Bilbo takes place in the year 1326 by Shire Reckoning, i.e. the year of Bungo's death.
> 
> \--Other notes--
> 
> ~ Regarding age: Mungo is a whooping 17 years younger than Gerontius. He was 41 years old when Gerontius became Thain, and only became head of the Baggins-family 10 years later; meaning that he, at the time of death, had held his position for 42 years without entirely delegating his duties to his son.
> 
> ~ Regarding relationship with Laura: Personal headcanons ahoy! Looking at dates and years, Laura appears to be 7 years younger than Mungo - and Bungo was born when Laura was only 32 years old, not even of age by hobbit terms. I had the thought that there would be few reasons to allow marriage to a technically underage hobbit, and a "premature" pregnancy would be one of them. It was most likely not planned in any way, but things happen. 
> 
> ~ Regarding death: The way I'd imagined Mungo's death was rather sudden - not unexpected, but sudden. More than likely it was caused by heartfailure.
> 
> ~ Regarding relationship to Gerontius: More personal headcanons! I have a hard time imagining that Mungo and Gerontius would get along - in fact, you could probably imagine that it would be more like two very angry cats. They'd get along like a house on fire, in the sense that they would either set each other on fire or push each other into the fire. They'll bury the hatchet for the sake of their children, but the handle of said hatchet is still sticking out of the ground and they're both giving it serious side-eye the entire time they have to be around each other. Mungo's little goodbye-note is his politest attempt at saying "Fuck you".
> 
> ~ Regarding "grandpa Mungo's chair": This is only ever referenced in the movies, but it gave me a sweet image of Bilbo refusing to make use of the chair because only his grandpa was ever allowed to sit in it...
> 
> \----  
> Well, here it is. Honestly, I am not entirely satisfied with how this came out - I had an idea, I started writing, I realised about halfway through that I had no idea where the hell I was going with it. Buuuuut at least it's done.  
> The name of Greenbriars is borrowed from Dreamflower02, whose stories are some of my favourites!


End file.
